Orphans is described by Tom Waits as a dead end kid driving a coffin with big tires across the Ohio River whilst wearing welding goggles. Wait's unmistakable voice is used to chug, stomp, weep, whisper, moan, wheeze, scat, blurt, rage, whine, and seduce. Ribot's guitar and the clanking, jangling, grooved accompaniment evoke smokey bars and the wrong part of town. The brawling, bawling, bastard words are straining to leave the pages of the accompanying song book.
Waits wanted the record to be like emptying pockets on the table after an evening of gambling, burglary, and cow tipping. A homemade doll with tinsel for hair and seashells for ears stuffed with candy and money. Or a good woman’s purse containing a Swiss army knife and a snake bite kit.
On Orphans there's a mambo about a convict who breaks out of jail with a fishbone, a gospel train song, a delta blues about a disturbing neighbor, a spoken piece about being struck by lightning, a Scottish madrigal about murderous sibling rivalry and an American backwoods a cappella about a hanging.
Thats just a grimy nailed, diesel oil stained handful of the 54 tracks.
I will be singing and dancing to this strange cacophony.
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